Stay
by Nizhoni
Summary: Trapped in a dangerous situation at home, Bill Denbrough would rather suffer in silence then get the Losers involved—especially not his girlfriend Beverly Marsh. Though Beverly is not about to stand by, watching her boyfriend be torn down by the same man he also calls father. As the situation becomes direr, Bev grows desperate to help the boy she loves—if only Bill would let her.


**A/N: Hi all! This will be a short three-part Billverly story, told from Beverly's perspective as she copes with being an outside observer to her boyfriend's abuse. It's an AU story, and a role reversal. The characters are still very true to form, but I've made Alvin Marsh, Bill's dad and therefore his name is now Alvin Denbrough. Georgie is also Beverly's little brother in this story, but don't worry, there's still lot's of Bill and Georgie interaction as well! There may also be some implied situations and triggering themes in this story and I'll be sure to warn readers in the authors notes when they come up.**

 **I hope you enjoy! And if you have time, please leave a comment and let me know what you think. I'd really appreciate it!**

...

A dewy night time breeze whistles between the branches of the quaking aspen, rooted outside Beverly Marsh's bedroom window and carries with it, the scent of leaves—crumbling and dry from drought—rustling through the crack she's left ajar for _him_. She basks in the fleeting draft, spreading her freckled arms and legs out and overtaking the breadth of her mattress to resemble a starfish, finding it's home on some blistering, untouched canvas of white sand.

It's one of those summer nights where a blanket feels suffocating, and she kicks her nana's quilt, an intricate patchwork of family history and passed down by generations of Marsh's, into a crumpled heap at her feat. She turns her pillow over—something she's done at least four times already—because she wants to feel the cool, unexposed side again. But the sensation passes quickly, ruined by her sweaty skin and warm breath, and Bev rolls over into a groan because she really, really can't stand this!

It's not even the temperature that's keeping her up—well, not just the temperature—it's that she's driving herself absolutely fucking crazy worrying about her boyfriend whose supposed to be here by now.

She sits up and watches the empty windowsill—sees only a discerning blackness overwhelming the glass and she wonders, crestfallen, where the hell are you Denbrough?

...

Earlier that day.

Swimming at the quarry with Young MC's "Bust A Move" blaring on repeat through the speakers of Stan's portable stereo, and shooting the shit with the Losers was Bev's idea of a perfect afternoon. It became easy enough to forget themselves, lulling into a dreamy afternoon stupor of beating rays, lazy laughs, and glistening sun-kissed skin. Eventually, they fell asleep together, all seven of them—bathing on a mossy outcrop by the water's edge.

The sun fell on the horizon; the steely-blue sky transcended into tangerine coloured hues, and was abraded with mauve whips of cotton-candy clouds. A tickling sensation puttered against her skin and woke her. Bev's eyelids twitched, her red lashes feathering, and she opened her eyes. A plumb little caterpillar, tinctured with flyways of black and orange seta crawled down her arm. She'd seen lot's of em' around here, Wooly Bear caterpillars were native to this area of Maine. Cute, till they eventually emerged from their chrysalis, an Isabelle Tiger Moth. Then they were just pretty pests, finding ways into her home and feeding on her mother's expensive clothing.

But not this one...no way...Bev could tell, he was one of the good caterpillars.

She smiled at the tiny creature; her cheek still pressed against Bill's chest and she brought the arm she'd rested against his waist, up closer to meet her eyes and get a better look.

"Well hello," she whispered, careful not to wake the others. Though, if no one woke from Richie's snoring by now, she figured she was probably safe. "Nice to meet you."

The caterpillar reared up, kicking the air as though trying to also greet her, and it fell back on its feelers to continue its journey. "You don't look like the type to eat dresses." It trailed down, onto her hand with no fear, moving with an excitable, elegance "Why so close to the shore, any how? Shouldn't you be cocooning on some branch somewhere?" She watched it carefully. "I guess I get it..." she turned her hand this way and that to guide the caterpillar between her fingers "...no one wants to grow up too fast."

Bill cleared his throat, and Bev lifted her head from his chest to find he was smiling endearingly up at her. He placed a hand over his eyes, squinting into the sunset and said, "Hope I'm not interrupting."

She shook her head, grinning at him and asked, "What's a good name for a caterpillar?"

"Ffff-fuzzy?"

Bev rolled her eyes at his complete lack of originality. "Come on Bill. This little guy is special and that means..." she rested her fingertip on Bill's stomach and let's the caterpillar crawl it's way onto his skin. "He needs a special name. Can we please try to think outside of the box?"

Bill gave a soft, beguiling chuckle and with a gentle touch, pet the caterpillar now moving it's way up his chest, "Okay, got it."

"Shoot."

"Stanley."

Bev snorted and covered her mouth to stifle her laugh. She looked around to see if anyone heard them, but the boys were still adrift, floating off on some distant ocean slumber. She looked down at Bill and shook her head, "He'd hate that."

"All th-the mmm-mu-more reason. Anyway, I think it's an honour we're naming our l-lu-little one after him."

Bev waved her hands, slicing through the air and halting on his comment, "Wait a sec! So we have sex and now I'm suddenly parenting a baby caterpillar with you?"

"Yeah, I gu-guess you are." He grinned, "I mmm-mu-must warn you though, I'm not exactly rrrr-ru-ready for this whole dad business yet."

"So what? I'm expected to raise little Stanley all on my own?"

"Well not completely on your own. I'm sh-shh-sure Uncle Stanley will help you out." He shrugged, "And I'll ssss-stop by, you know, from time to time."

They couldn't help but laugh, chest shaking, consuming howls that bounced between the quarry walls and echoed over the water. It woke the others, and the boys let out a chorus of groans as they muddled back into wakefulness.

"The fuck!" Richie muttered, rubbing his eyes and sitting up from is position as little spoon beside Eddie. "I was dreaming up some pretty tantalizing Miss. K developments before you decided to go ahead and drag me out of it."

"Oh yeah?" Mike teased, because he was always one to poke a sleeping bear if it meant a good laugh, "Bout' what?

"Oh eww!" Eddie groaned, "I don't want to hear this!"

"Let's just say she likes to get real naaaasty in that recliner of hers. We were goin' at it pretty hard—"

Bev detangled herself from Bill who stood up and offered his hand. He pulled her to her feet and Bev turned around so he could help brush the dirt and leaves off of her back. Sometimes Bev wondered if Bill knew the kind of effect he had on her, because even after he finished, his touch still lingered on her skin. Bill gambolled his fingertips from one shoulder to the next and slowly, gingerly stroked a line down the curve of her neck. The sensation was electric. He had to know right? He must have felt the sudden shudder jolting up her spine, or the goosebumps sparking on her skin and she thought, "bastard", because he was definitely teasing her.

She supposed she deserved it, considering what she'd done to him in the bed of her truck just days before—pressing her wet lips against his stomach and pecking, slow, burning hot kisses...down...down…down...till she reached his belt line. " _Jesus Bev_ ," he gasped when she decided to stop there, just so she could look up and simper at him, " _ffff-fucking temptress_."

"Beep, beep!" Eddie shouted, punching Richie in the spine.

"Ouch! Shit Eddie, that one actually hurt!"

Richie's voice startled them back to their senses to remind them both; they weren't the only two people on the planet, even if it felt like they were. Five other people were still present during their little not too subtle, soft-core display.

Mike smiled wider; seeming satisfied with himself, "you had that coming."

Bev and Bill broke apart—Bev sneaking Bill a flirtatious wink as she walked away to gather her clothes. His gaze followed. He swallowed hard, as he watched her put her jeans back on, pulling the denim over one long, taut leg and then the next. He rubbed the back of his neck, to ease the tension lapsing through him and attempted to distract himself with anything else. He decided to task himself with cooler duty and pretended to pack the snacks away, when really, his mind was completely elsewhere.

"Big Bill!"

"Huh?" Bill jumped; looking red cheeked when he found Richie staring at him from behind his coke-bottle glasses. "I mu-mean, ya-yeah…yes, Rich?"

"Looks like you're finally growin' that peach fuzz, huh?"

Bill furrowed his brows, "What?"

Richie grinned, gesturing to Bill's chest and the others snickered when they also noticed the caterpillar still rested there. Bev giggled, touching a hand to her lips.

"Oh yeah," Bill said, cupping the little creature between his palms, "Bev made a friend," he explained to them. He walked back over to where she was and offered it to her. Bev opened her hands to allow the caterpillar to pass between them.

"I think I'll keep him," she smiled, nuzzling her nose against it, "at least for a little while."

"You're gonna' keep a bug?" Eddie asked, not attempting to hide how grossed out he was, "like as a pet? I don't think that's sanitary."

"Not just a bug," Bev smiled, "Stanley Junior."

"Wait what?" Stan asked, sitting up from his towel, where he had been laying and pretending to still be asleep. He ripped his sunglasses off his eyes and stood up. "No way, you're not gonna' name that ugly thing after me."

"But he so much like you!" Bev chimed, "an eency-weency prickly pair. But really, he's just a softy."

"I'll bet he's even softer under my foot."

Bev gasped, a dramatic aghast sound. She touched a hand to her heart, "how dare you threaten little Stanley Junior. He's your nephew!"

"I didn't agree to this!"

"Besides," Bill smiled, "We've already signed all the pu-pu-paper work. It's official."

"Wait a minute," Richie interrupted, "don't the rest of us get to be a part of this? Because I dibs being the cool aunt!"

"Hang on," Ben said, "Why wouldn't you just be the cool uncle?"

"Oh yeah," Richie shrugged, "I guess that would make a lot more sense, wouldn't it?"

Bev laughed, "Everyone will have a special role in Stanley Junior's life. He's going to need all the guidance he can get."

Stanley frowned. He glared out into the distance, now noticing the setting sun, "jeez, how long were we asleep, anyway? Sun's almost down."

Bill stiffened, his expression fell and he turned to the horizon, as if needing to confirm this himself. Something had suddenly changed in his demeanour, like he were coming back to himself and realizing he'd made a grave error.

Richie grabbed Eddie's watch, like it wasn't also attached to his boyfriend's wrist and read aloud, "It's almost nine." Eddie yanked his arm back, and slapped Richie's knee.

"Shit!" Bill hissed, capturing all their attention. He left Bev standing where she was and hobbled on bare feet toward the rock where he'd stashed his things. "Shit! SHIT!"

The smile left her lips, and Bev watched as Bill raced to pack his things and toss his clothes on in a frantic dance of skinny limbs. The Losers, wising up to the situation, quickly jumped in to help. Ben packed up Bill's books and CD's and Mike was already running ahead to fetch Silver from up the hill where they had stashed their bikes. Richie tossed Bill his clothes, a sock here, a shoe there and he didn't even mention when Bill mistakenly shucked Richie's shirt on—a Hawaiian tee, littered with green hibiscuses, and ocean waves plastered on the chest pockets—instead of his own.

Bev watched from a distance, and if it weren't for Stanley Junior still crawling on her palm she'd probably be clenching her fists right now.

She thought they had time. Here at the quarry with their friends it felt like they had all the time in the world. Except that's the thing about singular moments—they always escape to soon.

Bev rushed down the rock to meet him, her pulse beating anxiously. It was like someone had reached into her chest, clutched her heart and squeezed it tight. The feeling was constricting—painful and it sent a dizzying flood of blood, rushing to her head. She tripped on a stone and Bill, somehow seeming to sense her presence, turned to catch her. He stared softly into her eyes with a gaze that threatened tears, but he'd never let them fall—not with the others watching.

"Stay," She tried; staring back at him with a wide-eyed urgency she hoped would convince him. "You don't have to go Bill." She touched his cheek, "You can just...stay with us."

"Hey, don't do that," he cooed and smiled in a sad way, not quite reaching his eyes. He kissed her forehead, "Don't you worry bout' me. I can handle mmm-mu-myself."

Beverly dropped her gaze and Bill tucked a knuckle under her chin, tilting her head up so that their eyes could meet again, "Rrrr-really Bev, I'll be fine. It's only a ffff-few minutes after curfew, he pu-prr-probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone."

The lie had passed so easily through his lips; she was almost compelled to believe him. Almost.

"Just tu-tu-take care of Stanley Junior, alright? Lord knows he's gonna' need it, with ffff-five uncles, he's already doomed."

Bev let out a small titter in spite of herself. She stood on her toes, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

"Bill!" Mike called, rolling up on Silver, "You gotta' go!"

"I'll see you tonight," he promised, whispering against her lips before he finally withdrew. And just like that, he was off—shouting thanks to his friends before hopping on Silver and peddling away, into the trees.

Bev watched him go, staring into the path he'd taken, even long after his figure had disappeared. Gravel shuffled beneath Ben's feet as he came to stand at her side. He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. Bev reached across her chest, to hold his hand in hers.

Ben said, "he'll be okay Bevvie," and he passed her Bill's forgotten shirt—a green plaid, button down that was still not quite dry. "He's Big Bill."

"Thanks Ben," she said, letting go of his hand to take it from him. She balled the shirt in her grip and clutched it to her chest.

Mike came over with a clear glass jar from the cooler; previously it had sweet peaches inside, canned specially by Mike's mom. But now it was empty. Mike had dumped them out into a nearby bush, and had rinsed it clean in the quarry. Now a few twigs and some leaves rested on the bottom. "Here," he said, holding the open jar toward her. "If you're going to keep him, I don't think your hand is the safest place for the little guy to get comfortable."

Bev offered a small, gracious smile and reached her other hand toward the jar, allowing Stanley Junior to climb inside. Once the caterpillar had found its place, Mike sealed the jar, with a tin cover he'd punctured with some air holes.

He handed it over. "I wish we could do more," he told her; and she sensed he wasn't talking about the caterpillar anymore.

"I know Mike," she said back, taking the makeshift habitat from him, "Me too."

They stood there for some time, in the silent absence of their departed friend; listening to the sound of birds chirping in the distance, and the water as it lapped against the stones at their feet.

But of course it was Richie who finally had enough, breaking tension in the only way the Trashmouth knew how. "Soooo…" he declared loudly, "I don't want to be dick or anything, but Bill kinda' stole my fucking shirt."

"Seriously?" Stan shook his head, "just can it Rich." His words were sharp, but a smile was undoubtedly teasing at his lips.

"I'm just saying, I'm half naked over here. That'd be a great thing if Eddie was like, into nipple-play or some shit, but he's more of a…" Richie squinted an eye, and plastered on an muzzy Aussie accent, "Down-Unda mate!"

"Jesus Richie, don't discuss our sex life with our friends!"

Richie laughed, and then he was turning to Beverly, "Hey Red—"

Beverly ignored him, closing her eyes and shaking her head to try and block him out.

"Bev! Beverly! Beeeevie!"

"What Richie!"

That didn't last long.

He smirked at her, "I'm gonna' need to wear Bill's shirt home."

"You're kidding right?"

"Do I look like the type of guy who would kid?" He held his arms out, revealing his pale torso and two very pink; standout attributes staring Bev right in the eyes.

"No." She was surprised to find herself chuckling, "You look like a glass cutter."

"A glass cutter?"

"With those bad boy," Beverly bit her lip and pinched one of her own breasts as reference, "I'm sure you could make a decent living."

Richie blushed, placing his hands over his pecks, "See, this is what I'm talking about! It's damn well cold out here."

"Hardly," Ben said, "It's like thirty degrees."

"Yeah but we're by the water."

"So?"

"So there's a fucking wind chill Haystack, and I'm freezing my ass off!"

Mike added, "And your nipples, apparently."

"And my fucking nipples," He placed his hands together pleadingly, "have some mercy for the twins Marsh."

"Why do we keep talking about Richie's nipples?" Stan piped up, "Seriously, I'd literally rather talk about anything else."

"Hey!" Eddie interjected, "He has beautiful nipples!"

"Thank you Eds."

"Your welcome," Eddie said, kissing Richie firmly on the lips—probably to shut him up.

But that finally got them, and suddenly they were all laughing—taking in the simple distraction of being silly with each other. With tears in her eyes, Beverly took them all in, her Losers, grateful to whatever cosmic, perplexing force of fate that had brought them together. She needed this; a reminder, that even while faced with the worst—together they'd always manage to stumble into something good.

"So can I have the damn shirt?" Richie asked again, once the laughter had finally subsided.

"Not on your fucking life Trashmouth."

She brought it up to her face and inhaled the fabric. It still smelled like him, like grass stains and dirty palms and questionable quarry water; woven deep with the faint trace of lemon detergent. Tide if she wasn't mistaken. It was the scent of a boy who lived for moments like these—and maybe of a boy whose mom still did his laundry for him.

But she'd never hold that against him.

She imagined the same boy arriving home, about to brave his doorstep. A trembling hand turning the doorknob—hesitantly—because he knows, deep down, that he's about to enter the belly of the beast.


End file.
